So they haven’t turned on the heating yet

And, naturally, I’ve finally gotten sick – the shrinking interval between jumping-out-of-bed and jumping-into-warm clothes/hot shower notwithstanding. To add insult to injury, my mother left home for the market today, and left the keys in the lock. I was wondering why the hell someone was laughing hysterically on the stairwell as I tried to open the front door to let my boyfriend out to the pasture (i.e. to smoke). Would they still be laughing if some stray ash ignited our rug, dooming us to die (me in my underwear no less)? At least we’d finally get warm.

So. Since I am not out showing boyfriend yet more aspects of Exotic Ukraine (our poor ballet tickets! I’m sorry, Yura šŸ˜¦ ), here are the things we’re amusing ourselves with in the meantime:

I’ve always shied away from calling Bono a douche – but the “modestly named U2 Tower” is giving me some pause. I’m into weird new architecture, even if it is a bit out of place, but U2 Tower? Seriously?

I think Californication is a good show. I don’t care if anyone’s delicate hipster sensibilities are affected by the sight of Natascha McElhone saying the tried and true “you’re wasting your gift” to David Duchovny’s fashionably rumpled writer character. I’ve never been to California, written an “underground bestseller,” or had randomly good sex with a woman who proceeds to steal my records (of which I only have one anyway – “Abbey Road,” which someone fished out of a garage sale bin for me once) – and I relate to this show.

I have decided that I don’t care if Facebook applications are ruining the Feng Shui of my profile. So there.

This week, I am proud of having published this. I’m proud of everything and everyone associated with the sites (they WILL be re-designed soon, I promise), but this is just priceless.

Thanks to me, my brother has discovered Maz Jobrani. My sisterly duties are complete for the next five years. No more helping him memorize Lesya Ukrainka poetry for me.

Blog-stroll on Pokrov

Pokrov is an Eastern Orthodox religious holiday. It’s been a long time since I’ve spent Pokrov at home. I like it. It’s happy and low-key and very, very peaceful.

Ali Eteraz is… being Ali Eteraz. And pissing off Yvonne Ridley. Ye-a.

Pandagon’s latest book selection is Susan Faludi’s The Terror Dream. The dissection of the media myths following 9/11 sounds interesting enough (particularly wherein Jessica Lynch is concerned, IMHO), but somehow it all just doesn’t make me sweat or even raise an eyebrow- probably because so much of what the hysterical, soundbite-driven American media presents as actual gender politics is completely meaningless to begin with.

On a related note, a commenter on the Salon article that compared Faludi’s book and Springsteen’s new album actually made a crack about Condoleeza Rice’s “sex-slave stilettos.” Amid the anti-woman bullshit already being spewed, here was a woman attacking another woman over her choice of clothing, as opposed to, you know, her bloody policies – and it just made me want to throw up my hands and leave everyone to their special sandbox.

Anyway. If you, like me, are in Kiev this month – here are more things to see, things besides Pinchuk. There is always DAKH of course. Which is beautiful, and which was where we were last night.

I hope it’s OK for me to say

That I’m glad Doris Lessing got the Nobel, as opposed to Philip Roth. I can’t get into Roth’s fiction no matter how hard I try.

*This is the part wherein some smart-ass shows up and tells me that the entire reason why I don’t get into Roth has to do with my lack of a Y chromosome. The smart-ass either manages to evade the question of males who cannot get into Roth (or, at the very least, later Roth), or else tells me that the “castrated” men of the English-speaking world and beyond could not possibly give a real opinion of Roth’s genius in the presence of ladies. Whatever. Maybe one day I’ll get into Roth – but it won’t be because I would have gotten over a bit of “women’s trouble” in that regard.*

Having said all that, I can’t get into Doris Lessing either. I have, however, more of a chance with her (hm, is it just me, or am I beginning to sound obscene?). It’s those first few lines of hers – they, like dough on cheap pans, seem to stick.

A dog from a breeder (in other words, a dog from the depths of HELL)

I’m getting damn tired of two particular groups of people.

Group A: The people who have an aneurism if they hear that some terrible person somewhere got their dog from a breeder.

Group B: The people who have an aneurism if they hear that some dumb person somewhere got their dog from the pound (or, in the case of my neighbours in Kiev – a garbage bin, literally).

I’ve been lucky enough in my life to have had both a very well-bred dog, and a mongrel from a shelter. The criticism of the breeder industry in the world is valid – there is pet overpopulation, there is the commodification of pets (treating them like pretty toys when they are living beings with needs), there are irresponsible breeding practices (the horrors of puppy mills, cramped conditions, inbreeding, and other forms of abuse), and there is the overall notion that a pure-bred animal is somehow more worthy than a mongrel.

I’ve volunteered in a shelter, and it was an eye-opening experience, to say the least. If you simply want a companion (or know anyone who does) – always, always check out the shelter first. And if you want a specific breed, check with a rescue group affiliated with it. This is my recommendation for most people, as is spaying or neutering your pet. This is the humane, responsible thing to do.

HOWEVER

Specific breeds are created for specific purposes. And, I would argue, specific dogs (the definition of a breed is often too wide) are there for specific people. While I’m not a professional in any capacity, I’ve often found myself counseling people withh PTSD (the counseling usually involved trying to get them to an actual qualified counselor – just in case you think I’m some sort of shaman). Oftentimes, people with specific psychological problems are encouraged to get specific types of companion animals. You can’t always find a mild-mannered, athletic, obedient, medium-sized guard dog at a shelter or a rescue group, for example. Meanwhile, you might have a need for such a dog for a variety of reasons, not the least of it being a psychological need for a very docile, understanding companion.

Other people, those who do not feel safe when stepping out on theĀ  street, will get a super-intelligent guard dog – such as a German Shepherd for example (or a variation thereof). Chihuahuas are, believe it or not, guard dogs as well – both ferocious and devoted, and will alert you to any outside noises. They are great for someone living in a cramped space.

In Kiev, people will sometimes adopt or buy the offspring of a dog that guards their local parking lot. It will be a mongrel in appearance, but it would be acquired for a specific reason – its mother and/or father are seen as good protectors, and if there’s anywhere you need protection, it’s in Kiev. The thinking is similar to breeder-type thinking, except the pay will usually be smaller.

People with small children, meanwhile,Ā  will invest in a more docile, “family-friendly” pet – and raise it from puppyhood on. Excluding those individuals who buy dogs as substitutes for toys (the dumbasses, in other words) – a dog is good for both companionship, protection, and learning responsibility. And no, you can’t always find the perfect rescue dog wherein kids are concerned.

I adore dogs – but I also have very practical (or, what I consider practical) views on them (no, I’ve never referred to myself as a “pet guardian,” and no, please don’t try to convert me at this point in my life).Ā  My first dog was bred for protection. The shelter dog, meanwhile, was a risk – a rewarding risk, a terrific risk, but a risk nonetheless. I was in a position to take one, and I did it, and I have no regrets. Moreover, the presence of my shelter dog encouraged me to volunteer, and to take a closer look at breeder practices, and at the way we treat animals in general.

All of this, however, does not give me the right to automatically pass judgment on people who make the decision to go to a breeder – as long as the breeder in question is reputable enough.

Out and about in the city

Pinchuk, unlike some of our other gazillionaires, is putting more money into art (as opposed to, say, a gold-plated jacuzzi for an underage mistress).

I loathe the self-important expat jackasses than hang out at O’Brien’s pub – but recent trips there have been free of the “do you speak English, luv” crowd, and anyway, the Premiership is on.

Nikita Mikhalkov (most people in the U.S. would recognize him as the director of “Burnt by the Sun”) has done an adaptation of “12 Angry Men,” calling it “12.” The plot involves the situation in Chechnya so… yeah.